Tuesday, October 20, 2009

oh, poo!

there are a couple of things chapping my balls today. the first of which is that the washable sweater i am wearing still managed somehow to shrink, EVEN THOUGH i washed it cold and delicate and dried it with absolutely no heat. son of a fucking bitch. and i woke up late and couldn't get up and my broken foot is really bothering me and by the time i got out of the shower (which is the biggest pain in the ass production considering said foot and its cast and the cumbersome plastic thing i have to pull on over my sock while balancing on the good foot and trying not to rip the damn thing to shreds/step on the cat/fall and break my face open on the radiator) i was too late to even properly moisturize let alone try on sweaters and make costume changes. i put my boot on wrong, dumped cat food all over the floor, and shattered a glass in the sink. so i just threw on a sweater without looking at it and put on my coat and hobbled to the train. which i fucking missed. because i am so slow. because of my broken down piece of shit asshole foot. my foot that STILL HURTS. i am really at the edge today.

you know why else? because my crohns just came roaring out of remission, and that makes me tired and sad. and IRRITATED. and i think a lot of things suck, but nothing is worse than this gross-ass shit disease. yes, there are worse things, but since those things are not currently happening to me, this bullshit is the worst thing that has ever happened to anyone in the history of ever.

i don't ever talk about this business, because the word "disease" is off-putting and scary and i don't want anyone to ever move his or her chair away from me in public. but then that makes me feel all ashamed, like i'm hoarding some awful dirty secret. and i am trying to operate from a shame-free place. i have crohn's disease, and its little bastard cousin ulcerative colitis. there, i said it. i have some horrible butt disease that you would never want to deal with, and i er, embrace it. if you are my friend or my hot piece or my bitter enemy you would eventually find this shit out anyway, so i'd be a motherfucking idiot to try to hide it. because i will ruin your movie or your breakfast or your football game or your cousin's wedding or your graduation or your party or your concert or your REM sleep cycle with my poorly understood immunodeficiency inflammatory bowel disease.

that's right, friend! she and i will rear our ugly heads when you least expect it and are least prepared. like when you take us on that long road trip you've been talking about, and she and i ask you seven times to find us a truck stop because you couldn't find me something devoid of taste, texture, and nutrients to eat and i had no idea a plain bagel would race through my guts like a greyhound. or maybe you'll meet my special friend in the middle of that movie you really, REALLY wanted to see and waited in line for three hours to get tickets for. and if you don't automatically want to leave at the sight of my sweaty forehead and panic face, you will after i've gone and come back fourteen times. i have left dozens of plays and ceremonies and services and games and parties and events and i have stayed home from ten times as many because i fucking have diarrhea.

crohn's disease is an inflammatory bowel disease that causes inflammation of the lining of the digestive tract. it can affect any part of the digestive tract from the mouth to the anus, but is particularly fond of the small intestine. crohn's is an immunodeficiency disease, which means that the cells in my body that are supposed to protect against infection don't recognize food and normal bacteria that are in my intestine. let's break it down this way: an inocuous piece of bread is trying to make its way from my mouth to my booty hole. and it's pretty smooth cilia sailing , but only until the second it hits these grody old guts. my receptor cells, which should be like, "oh, hello food! what's up, delicious nutrients?" instead are all, "INTRUDER!" and flood my intestines with little soldiering white blood cells armed to the teeth to fight off the enemy. and while they are entrenched in battle, swords and spears and bayonets ablaze, i am in a ridiculous amount of pain which is typically followed by a torrent of bloody shit (and much apologizing to whomever i happen to be with at the time). YEARS of this gnarly in-fighting (think capulets and montagues, israel and palestine, keith olbermann and bill o'reilly...) have left my intestines a veritable wasteland of scar tissue. picture the circumference of your average drinking straw. now imagine shoving a chicken breast through it. (to be fair, a chewed-up chicken breast, but i think you get what i'm saying.) there are parts of my intestines that are so thick with useless scar tissue that whatever i eat has just that teenytiny space to squeak through. and with all that tussling and fighting going on around it, food rarely survives the journey intact. it just liquifies itself into runny chocolate pudding (on a good day) or smelly brown pee (on a bad one).

i have almost reached my lifetime limit of radiation exposure, as i have had three colonoscopies, seven CT scans, two barium series (small bowel imaging), and a capsule endoscopy (i swallowed a camera in a capsule that took digital pictures of my entire intestinal tract as it moved through my system until i crapped it out; somewhere in casa sam there is a dvd of all of the pictures. dude, you can watch it like a movie). i have had the contents of my stomach sucked out through my nose. i have shit in a bucket every day for two weeks and collected samples and shipped them fed ex to a lab. i've had various sections of my bowel removed. i have had to vomit while a doctor type dude sat and watched and took notes, and i don't mean in the sexy way.

my GI doctor is supermodel hot, totally fucking smoking oh my lord, and it pains me to imagine the ridiculous joke god is playing on my life; watching me and laughing his ass off while a calvin klein model tells me to relax my asshole so he can stick first his fingers and then the scope in. the first time he asked me about "the consistency of my last stool" i almost left my pants and ran screaming out the door. the BACK door. it's the worst kind of humiliation really, curled up on a cold table naked from the waist down fetus-style while a dude hotter than any dude you could ever imagine getting busy with spreads your booty cheeks and examines the skin around your hairy asshole. and he tries to be normal and talk to you about normal shit ("where do you work?" "what's your favorite band?" "what do you do for fun?") while he lubes up his dexterous digits so he can palpate your colon. try being comfortable during that! this is a dude i would be weirded out and nervous talking to while fully clothed and standing at the bus stop, let alone when his face is six inches from the crack of my ASS.

i wish you could've seen my face the time i shit on him. there are no words.

i spent my entire childhood with the ghetto diagnosis of a "weak stomach." you know what i mean. when black people let your little black ass shit her pants at school but still don't drag you to a doctor. i spent half of my junior year in high school in the second floor bathroom in the back of beardsley (you evanston kids know what's up), the one tucked in the back where they kept all the ESL kids. and maybe mexicans never have to go to the bathroom, but that bad girl was always empty. so i was always sitting in there, doing my chemistry and burning my asshole.

so think of the last time you had horrible diarrhea. i mean, use your mind grapes and really get back in that place. that hot, flushed, desperate, churning, panicky, butt-clenchy place. concentrate! okay, are you there yet? what about now? are you afraid you might crap yourself? or that the bathroom is too far? that traffic won't let up before you get to an exit? that someone will walk in the bathroom, recognize your shoes, then go running back to class to tell everyone what you were doing? that the train is going backward because the motherfucker is moving so slow? that your first day on your new job might have gone a LOT better if you hadn't spent your lunch break in the bathroom across the street at nordstrom because you don't really know these people yet? that your new boyfriend will be totally grossed out because it's your third date and you shouldn't have gotten the flaming cheese and now you're back at his apartment and are forced to ruin the mood (in his STUDIO) with a big noisy, smelly shit so you turn on the faucet in the bathtub because it's louder than the sink and you hope like hell he was drunk enough to pass out and doesn't notice you flushing his toilet thirteen goddamned times?


welcome to my universe, lovers. where i do not get to be lovely and delicate and demure because sooner rather than later i am going to have to talk to you about shit. when this bullshit is out of remission my life is a literal shitshow, on every channel. imagine the worst diarrhea you've ever had, and imagine having that nonsense every day. you could light a match on my poor rectum some days, i swear. i am the only child-free bitch on the planet with tubes of desitin in her purse. and in the bathroom. and in the nightstand. next to the vibrators, of course. and let's be for real. i have a sense of humor about everything, this included. i was diagnosed four or five years ago, and at the time i was MORTIFIED. while i was happy to have an answer, i was pretty fucking bummed to have some chronic, permanent shit at 24. i don't have the genetics required to live to super old age (don't cry for me, i've come to terms with it), but the prospect of even forty years with this bullshit was a lot to, um, stomach.

there is no cure, which is totally awesome. i'd take syphillis over this shit; at least i could get a shot in my vag and be right back on the horse a week later. in addition to no cure there is also no known cause, which makes climbing my disconnected family tree to inspect every branch for digestive difficulty even more awesome! my mom had MS, my dad was a vicious drunk, one of my sisters had cancer while another has had a couple heart episodes...where the fuck did this shit come from?! i'm supposed to only have a predisposition for gorgeous skin and a fat ass, both of which i got already. (thanks, parents!) this stomach shit is supposed to be in someone else's fucking family.

i take eight horse pills a day and massive amounts of steroids when i'm not feeling good. my list of NOs is longer than the credits of the last good movie you've seen and includes, but is certainly not limited to: sugar, caffeine, raw fruits and vegetables, alcohol, sweets, grease, cereal, dairy, yeast, fried, beef, pork, chocolate, spice, flavor, variety, and deliciousness. i don't adhere to these guidelines NEARLY as much as i should, which is why i still occasionally come frighteningly close to shitting myself on a weekly basis. sometimes a bitch's gotta pretend to be normal. i can't order rice and boiled chicken at fabulous restaurants, especially ones that don't have a children's menu. (thank god for the delightfully bland children's menu.) food is absolutely fucking delicious, and it's too bad that vile temptress is killing me and my intestines slowly. i should've called this blog bitches gotta shit.